


Among Other Foolish Things

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, One Shot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: CS Modern AU. CS AU Week. Based on the prompt: "i have a crush on you and i'm too chicken to confess and you're going for a 3 month trip to paris so i'm sure you'll return with a sophisticated girlfriend while i'm a mess (optional sabotaging the trip)"





	Among Other Foolish Things

**A/N: My contribution to CS AU Week, as a gift to the ever lovely Sophie (shady-swan-jones) who gave me the prompt for this, and then a number of motivational gifs to get me off the ground. You're a star. Thanks to Brian Fallon for providing me with a suitable title.**

Emma Swan was not crazy. She was not unhinged, unbalanced or otherwise impaired. She had a solid grip on reality, thank you very much, and apart from some textbook neuroses that were part and parcel of growing up a ward of the state, Emma was Just Fine.

Sure, she tended to punch first and ask questions later, and her romantic entanglements always seemed to fizzle out around the three month mark, but no one was perfect. She had a job. An apartment. A potted fern. And Killian Jones. She guessed she had him too.

Killian was not a boyfriend. He wasn't even a friend, exactly. It's not like he and Emma stayed up late having deep and meaningful conversations about the nature of the universe or whatever. No, he was just the guy down the hall who'd gotten it into his head that Emma's couch was more comfortable than his own.

It had been an accident, letting him in that first time. Well, not an accident exactly, but certainly a moment of weakness.

It had been an unassuming Sunday night in April. Emma had been cuddled up on her couch with a bag of microwave popcorn, the familiar strains of the opening title sequence bringing a flutter of anticipation in her gut, when there came a hurried knock at her door.

Setting the popcorn down was a groan, she pulled open the door, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck right off, and didn't they know it was Game of Thrones night? The words were already on her lips, when she caught sight of the man who'd dared interrupt her show.

He looked relieved, at first. That was the first thing she noticed. The second thing was that this guy was, objectively speaking, hot. Like, could have given Jon Snow a run for his money, hot. Her harsh words fell away as she caught herself staring.

"Oh, thank god!" he said when she opened the door. "Look, lass, I know this is very irregular, but I'm in a bit of a bind. I'm in 9A and my cable is out, and the episode is starting, and I swear to god I'm not a serial killer, but I really, really, really need to know if Jon Snow is alive or not. I swear, you won't even know I'm there."

The third thing she noticed, he was British. And insane, apparently. But Emma had to admit, as far as heartfelt pleas went, she was not unmoved.

"And I have beer?" he offered, when she didn't reply at once.

Maybe the right thing would have been to shut the door on the hot weirdo, but beneath Emma's tough exterior had always dwelt a tender heart. And he hadn't been lying. She kicked the door open the rest of the way with her foot.

"Mi casa es su casa," she said with a sweep of her hand, finding herself instantly rewarded with a flash of a brilliant smile, and an ice cold Heineken pressed into her palm.

He was the consummate house guest. True to his word, he didn't utter a peep while the episode played, and he stuck to his side of the couch. But to say she didn't notice he was even there? Well… maybe not.

"So…9A?" She'd repeated, after the final credits had rolled, and the two of them had sufficiently recovered from the latest plot twist.

"Aye. I moved in a month ago. And it's Killian, by the way. Killian Jones," he said, proffering his right hand. It was about then Emma realised it was the only one he had, the left hand tucked hastily into his jacket pocket a prosthetic.

"Emma," replied Emma, folding her hand in his. "Emma Swan."

When he'd showed up the next week bearing another six pack of imported beer, she'd taken it in stride. When he'd showed up the Sunday after that, Emma hadn't even bothered to engage the deadbolt, and told him to let himself in.

It wasn't a friendship. He was just using her for her HBO subscription, and she him for his decent taste in beer. An arrangement of mutual benefit. So when the season ended, and Killian had showed up the next Sunday with three seasons of Ray Donovan under his arm, she'd been a little surprised, but she hadn't questioned it.

Why ruin a good thing?

Okay, so maybe they talked a little. But not about, like, the deep stuff. It was just stupid stuff mainly. He told her about the boat he owned with his brother, about taking rich people out on charters to pay his way through grad school. She told him about the skips she caught, and the idiotic things they did to try to get away.

But they weren't friends. Emma didn't do friends. She didn't ask what had happened to his left hand, or why he'd left England. He didn't ask her why she didn't have any photographs or personal effects in her apartment. Instead, they co-existed in a comfortable bubble of fiction, where the only pain allowed belonged to someone else.

At least, that was the idea.

His arrival was signalled by the familiar sound of the key scraping in the lock, and the soft thump of upper body hitting the door, followed by a series of hesitant knocks.

"Swan?" came his voice through the door, uncertainty tingeing his words. "Did you change the locks? Is this penance for falling asleep while we were watching Outlander? Because I swear it was that flu medicine. They say it's non-drowsy on the box, but they're a pack of liars!"

"Excuses, excuses!" Emma called out, grinning to herself. And then with a pang of guilt, "It's open! Just stuck. Put your back into it!"

A few moments later, and Killian burst through the door like he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn. She was kidding herself if the sight didn't momentarily distract from her task, chopping carrots on the counter into uneven chunks.

"Bloody hell, what's up with the door, then?" Killian asked, letting his leather satchel fall to the floor in the hallway with a clatter.

"The superintendent said the wood was warped, from humidity or something? I don't know. He said he'd get around to it when he got around to it."

"As industrious as ever," Killian said dryly, taking a seat at Emma's breakfast bar, and folding his head into his hands. "And what do we have here, then? Your best Martha Stewart impersonation?"

Emma glowered. "What?" she replied hotly. "I cook."

"Not that I've ever seen, love," he remarked dubiously. "And that spatula over there still has the plastic on. So what's the occasion?"

Emma's eyes narrowed, and when he didn't relent she blew out a breath. "It's my birthday, okay? I'm 28, and I thought I could cook one simple meal like a real adult without fucking it up. But apparently," she said, lifting her knife to examine the mutilated carrot pieces before her, "I can't even get that right."

He craned his neck to take in the devastation with a low whistle. "First time cutting a carrot, I take it?"

"So?" Emma huffed.

"No judgement," Killian said, hand and prosthetic held aloft in a display of surrender. "But I've got a few tips."

"Such as?"

Sure, she'd asked. But that didn't mean she wasn't caught unawares when he sidled up behind her, and placed a gentle hand over her own. She jumped so far she nearly took his other hand off.

"Apologies, lass," he said softly, hand returning to rest on hers. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't," she retorted, convincing no one.

"Of course not. Perish the thought." She could have sworn she saw a smirk out of the corner of her eye, but with him so close, it was impossible to say for sure. It was almost impossible to think at all, what with his chest hard at her back, and his warm breath ghosting over her earlobe.

"So," she said, more breathlessly than she would have liked. "You said you had tips?"

"Aye," he replied, his breath hot across her cheek. "It's quite simple, so long as you know what you're doing."

"And that's you?" Emma asked. But instead of answering her, Killian tighten his grip on the hand holding the knife.

"This is what's called a rolling cut," he said, guiding her hand down and forward, the tip of the knife never leaving the board. "See how it's not a not a straight up and down cut?" he asked.

Emma hummed her agreement, her hand getting into the rhythm of the thing. Down and forward, down and forward, her grip on the knife turning her knuckles white.

She gave an unsteady exhale. "Like this?" she asked, her voice barely recognizable as her own.

"Aye," he replied, his usual accent seeming to have grown thicker. "Just like that."

Now, Emma wasn't blind. Killian Jones was a hot guy. He had that whole lilting accent, blue eyed, stubbly thing going on. She could appreciate. But until precisely that moment, she'd never wanted to climb him like a fucking tree.

"Shall we try it with a carrot this time, love?" he said, his words bringing her back to herself a little. She could swear she was blushing by now. He hoped he'd chalk it up to general cooking frustration, and her broken AC.

"Sure," she replied, reaching for the next carrot in the bowl. She cut off the ends, and then cut lengthwise twice, before falling into the pattern Killian had taught her.

"Moment of truth," Killian whispered, before taking his hand away, and taking a step back.

"But, no! What? I can't-"

"Of course you can, darling," he said motioning to the board in front of her where three rows of perfectly cut carrot chunks already lay. "You can do anything."

"Oh my god!" she said, her movements sure and steady as she decimated the last of the carrot. "I can do it!"

She dropped the knife on the cutting board and whirled around, arms raised in victory. "Killian! I did it! I'm a real adult!" And before she could talk herself out of it, she threw her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

If he was thrown off by this very un-Emma like maneuver, he didn't let it show, his arms coming up to wrap around her waist immediately. "Thank you," she said, into the crook of his shoulder.

"My pleasure, love," he whispered into her hair. "Happy Birthday."

For a moment, she let herself savor it, the feeling of his arms around her, the scent of his cologne seeping into her clothes, her skin, her hair. She let herself the savor the feeling of not being entirely alone in the universe, for just a moment.

And then she pulled away, the moment lost, and asked if he'd forgotten the beer.

The rest of the evening passed mostly without incident. Killian had brought over the third season of Black Sails, and they watched in companionable silence, Emma's homemade chili perfectly edible. They'd sat out on her balcony afterwards, along with her laundry she'd left out there to dry, and watched the city lights spread out below them.

They didn't talk about the deep stuff. Not really. She told him about the birthday she'd had when she was eight, and no one had remembered. About how she'd stolen some money from her foster mom's purse, cut school and gone to Six Flags on her own. That she'd pretended to join a group of kids on a class trip from Hartford, and no one discovered she was on her own for hours. That she'd eventually been found out, and bundled back in the group home by that very evening, but she hadn't regretted it.

He told her about the time he'd run away from home and his brother had found him a few hours later, out on their father's old boat. How he'd already exhausted the considerable haul of snacks he'd brought him and fallen into a sugar coma long before he could ever work out how to turn the deviled thing on. That Liam had found him curled up on the deck in agony, battling the world's worst stomachache.

She noticed that even in his stories, Killian was never the hero of the piece. He seemed fated to always play the fool, while the hero role was always reserved for his older brother, Liam. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

When he went home that night, he pressed a kiss into her hair as he left, wishing her a happy birthday again. And as Emma touched her fingers to the place where his lips had been, she had to face facts.

When it came to Killian Jones, she was completely, utterly screwed.

Realizing you've got a crush on your neighbor is one thing. Keeping it from him when he had a key to your apartment and liked to drop by for spontaneous Netflix time on the regular, was another.

The key was supposed to be for emergencies, but considering how they'd met, Emma should have figured Killian's definition of emergency might deviate from the norm.

Fortunately, Killian had found himself more and more distracted by school, and he didn't seem to notice any change in Emma. He didn't notice the way she seemed to become hyper aware of him at all times, the smallest accidental graze of his skin against hers leaving her feeling like she'd been struck with a cattle prod.

No, he didn't notice, and his fatigue was starting to show. He'd been burning the candle at both ends, working on his fellowship application between boat charters, barely enough time between to eat or sleep. That he even bothered coming over at all puzzled Emma, but she did her best. She kept the volume low, and picked out the dullest series she could find, waiting for him to inevitably succumb to sleep. Then she'd set his alarm on his phone, toss a blanket over him and leave him to it for a few hours.

He was always terribly apologetic afterwards, when he awoke with a start, his hair adorably askew, and his eyes puffy. As if it had not been Emma's design in the first place.

He promised that when he heard back about the fellowship, they'd celebrate. They'd go out to a movie, where he couldn't fall asleep.

She bit her lip to hide her reaction to the idea. Her. Him. Out of the apartment. In public. Like a date, she thought. Exactly like a date.

That day came sooner than she thought. One moment she was dragging her sorry self up the stairs to the fifth floor after a successful take-down of some ponytailed low-life, and the next he overtook her on the stairs, smile wide, holding a crisp white envelope in his hand.

"Swan! Swan! I got it! I got it!" It took Emma a moment to realize what he was talking about, but before she could say anything he'd enveloped her in a hug, lifting her off the ground, twirling her around.

"Whoa, Nelly," she said, as he placed her back down on her feet, her hand shooting out to grip the banister for balance. "You must have got it. I've never seen you like this!"

And that was true, she hadn't. On a good day, Killian Jones could be the lively sort, but now he was like an overgrown golden retriever puppy, all pent up excitement and unfocused energy.

"I'm off to Paris!" he shouted, his words echoing down the stairwell.

In an instant, Emma felt her stomach drop, and her smile must have done the same, because Killian's own smile faltered.

"P...Paris?" Emma asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"Aye," Killian said, his excitement fading a little, his eyes filling with concern. "Part of the Fellowship is a semester at the Sorbonne, all expenses paid. Surely I've mentioned it?"

Which was the moment that Emma felt like the worst kind of friend. He had. Of course he had. It wasn't the kind of detail he was likely to leave out. And Emma hadn't listened, probably too caught up in the way his blue eyes seemed almost violet in a certain light, or how he hadn't remembered his prosthetic the last few times he'd come over, and she'd wanted to trace the silvery lines of scar tissue where they disappeared under his sleeve, wondering how far up they went.

"Oh, yeah," Emma stammered, feeling her face flush. "Sorry, I'm a bit out of it today. But that's so exciting! Paris! The city of … lights!"

It had been a sincere effort on her part, but she was sure it felt forced.

A semester at the Sorbonne. Six months without Killian?

True to his word, that night they went out for a celebratory dinner and a movie. Emma could have worn one of the dresses she had in her closet for luring in horny bad guys, but it didn't feel right somehow. She settled for her usual boots, jeans and leather jacket. If the snooty staff at the restaurant weren't happy with her outfit choice, Killian tipped them well enough that they didn't let it show.

They watched something long and foreign, and as promised, Killian didn't fall asleep, even when the plot descended into absurd melodrama sometime around the third act.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked, once they'd finally reached the landing to their floor.

"Yeah, fine. Just thinking about the movie."

"The one you hated?" he teased.

"I didn't hate it!" Emma protested. "I just don't get why they had to kill her off! I mean, she was the best part of the movie. And then this gorgeous French girl had to swoop in and suddenly she's the main character? I mean, why even make me care about her in the first place? Why not just leave her out of " She bit her lip to stop the torrent of words.

"Emma?" The tone was pure concern, with the furrowed brows to match.

"Never mind," Emma said, with a shaky breath. "You're right. I hated it."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she said again. "Thanks for dinner," she said, reaching over to grasp his hand. "I really am proud of you, you know?" she said, giving it a final squeeze.

"You mean that?" Killian asked, as if he wasn't sure.

"Of course I do!" Emma said. "You're my best friend."

It seemed obvious, now she'd said it aloud. He was her best friend. And now, with the knowledge of his impending departure burning a hole in her stomach, she was reminded exactly why she'd fought so hard against it in the first place. Why she'd always be fighting her feelings where Killian Jones was concerned. Because he had the power to cleave her in half, and he didn't even know it.

"And you're mine," he said with a wan smile.

"More Black Sails at mine tomorrow?" she asked, steering the ship to more familiar waters.

"Aye, love. Wouldn't miss it."

Emma wasn't crazy. She stood by that. But as Killian's departure date drew closer, she wondered if she hadn't maybe lost the plot a little.

It hadn't been a calculated move on her part, not at first. She was proud of him, and she did want him to have fun in Paris, to see a bit of the world, and learn so much. Only, she really, really didn't want him to go.

She blamed that stupid movie they'd seen, with that French actress and her obscenely red lips coming out of stage left and whisking away the leading man, as if his first love had never existed. She pictured the hordes of attractive, red-lipped women they surely had at the Sorbonne, just waiting to whisk Killian away.

Maybe he'd fall in love with some fashion model, and he'd stay there forever. She pictured the two of them, Killian and his French girl walking along the banks of the Seine, or drinking un café in some cute Parisian bistro, their hands intertwined across the tabletop. Killian proposing to his French girl at the top of the Eiffel Tower, not even caring that it was literally the cheesiest thing in the world because he was so blinded by love.

It was stupid. Emma was stupid. He wasn't even… She had no right to be jealous. And yet, every time she closed her eyes she saw it. The perfect Parisian romance, ripping away the one person she'd let herself give a shit about.

The thing with the passport form had been an accident. He'd left the form on her kitchen counter for her to sign, proving he was indeed who he said he was in order to renew his expired passport. And she'd meant to sign it right away. She really had. Instead she'd stuffed it into her bag on her way out the door. Which might have been fine, if she hadn't had a scalding hot coffee thrown at her by one of her skips, drenching both her and the entire contents of her bag.

Killian hadn't thought to be angry, not when he'd seen the angry red blotches of skin peeking out from her T-shirt. He'd even offered to apply the special cream, until Emma had ripped the tube from his grasp, and told him to keep out of her sight until she didn't feel like it was on fire.

It wasn't his fault. But the thought of Killian's hands on her bare stomach... rubbing soft circles into her skin… No. She could apply her own damn burn cream. But the passport thing, well, she had to admit it gave her an idea.

It was stupid stuff.

Things he had already packed might find themselves miraculously back in his bathroom cabinet, as if they'd never left. The first guy who'd shown up looking to sublet his apartment had found themselves mysteriously directed to the building across the street. His flight confirmation code stuck to his fridge didn't match the one he'd been emailed. He'd found his student accomodations in Paris switched from a co-ed to a male only dorm room.

Emma couldn't bring herself to actually do something that might seriously jeopardize his trip. A broken leg. An anonymous letter to the university alleging plagiarism. She may have been stupid, but she wasn't cruel. And he probably would have chalked all her machinations up to pre-departure jitters, had he not caught her red-handed lifting his electric razor out of his suitcase.

"You're… you're home early," she'd stuttered, the device still clutched uselessly in her hands.

"And you've decided to pull a GI Jane. Or is there another reason you might be stealing my beard trimmer under cover of darkness?" He asked from his place in the doorway, arms folded over his chest.

"I uh… I was…" She could feel her face flushing red, tears of shame burning in the corners of her eyes. There was no talking her way out of this one.

"Emma, what the hell is going on?"

"I…"

"Love?" He was closer then, his words softer, suspicion replaced with puzzlement.

She lifted her head up to meet his gaze then. His kind blue eyes, waiting patiently for an explanation.

"I'm scared, alright?" Emma blurted out. "I'm scared that you're leaving. I'm scared something is going to happen to you or you're going to never come back. I'm scared you'll never want to come back. I'm scared you'll meet someone that means more to you than I ever will, and she'll have red lipstick, and she'll know how to wear a scarf thirty two different ways, and know how to chop a fucking carrot and-"

"Love," He had his hand and prosthetic resting on her shoulders at that point, trying to shake her out of her hysteria.

"And I'm such a mess, and I don't even have a front door that works, and I can't cut a carrot, and I only know one way to tie a scarf and-"

"Love!" he repeated, louder this time, hands cradling her face now, shocking her into silence. "You think I'm not scared?" he asked, blue eyes shining. "I'm going to be three thousand, four hundred and thirty five miles away from the woman I love for half a bloody year, in a country where I don't speak the language, sharing a room with some bloke I've never met called Etienne or something!"

Emma went to open her mouth, then closed it. And then she let his words sink in.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Emma, darling, I love you, but sometimes you can be so dense," he said, his thumb coming up to brush away a stray tear trailing down her cheek.

"Love?" Emma asked, her voice shaky and uncertain.

"Aye," Killian smiled, a white, brilliant smile. "Since the moment you let a complete stranger into your apartment to watch Game of Thrones and share your popcorn. You think I care about scarves, or what was it? Women with red lipstick?" He shot her a distasteful look. "Darling, I'm a PhD student with one hand and a mountain of student loans. You think I give a fuck if you aren't someone else's idea of perfect?"

"You're serious," Emma said, eyes growing larger by the minute. "You mean that."

"Aye," Killian said again, voice growing softer again. "Is that… alright with you?"

In answer, Emma did the only thing she could think of, the only thing she'd been wanting to do for months. She leaned forward and brought her lips to his. He responded immediately, one arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer, her hand on his shoulder keeping her anchored as she lost herself in his kiss.

"Are you still going to Paris?" Emma asked, when they eventually broke apart, her nose grazing his.

"Unfortunately," Killian admitted. "I need to go. Do you understand?"

Emma nodded, breathing in the scent of his skin. "I understand."

"And you'll wait for me?" he asked.

"That depends," Emma hedged. "Can I put the clippers down now?"

Laughing, he took the beard trimmer out of her hand and tossed it back into the suitcase laid open on the bed. "You won't be needing that, lass."

"Just you," she said, winding her arms around his neck. "And a whole lot of Skype dates."

"Game of Thrones Skype Dates?" He asked, eyebrows raising in hopeful anticipation.

"Most definitely."


End file.
